Vacuity

(a continuation of sorts of this poem, in a strange sort of a way...)




what are these things that we go to and get away from,
these masses of matter that we shun, shy away from
and then are drawn inevitably back towards—
or if not inevitably then more often than not
more strongly towards than away from so that
we are always having this going—
this coming and going, this to-ing and fro-ing—
these lines and circles in the woods where
even chaos is a kind of order, a kinder order
than we are used to, than we deserve,
a kind of overlay on these things that
defy this definition, all these definitions 
since nature abhors lines and circles as much 
as vacuums and yet of what is this universe 
mostly made except the stuff of which it
isn’t?